Introductions
by kazumigirl
Summary: Sherman, now twenty, is afraid to come out to his father.


**Introductions**

**Author's Note:** Okay, so I know that Sherman most likely would not turn out to be gay. I can't really even picture it, but I love the father-son relationship so much that I love to think of every scenario imaginable that might come between a parent and child. And if you think about it, the movie is one big metaphor for gay adoption anyway, so why not reverse the idea? I hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Okay, Sherman," the twenty-year old said staring into his bedroom mirror. Even though he'd been away at college for three years, he still considered the untouched room his sanctuary. "You can do this."

"Sherman?" His father called from the kitchen. "Could you give me a hand?"

"Coming, Mr. Peabody!" Sherman called back. He shook a finger at his reflection, and then made his way to the kitchen where his canine father was preparing a variety of colorful ingredients in a skillet.

"Quickly," Mr. Peabody said. "Hand me that red wine."

Sherman handed it to him. He watched his father work, and his nerves settled as the clinking of dishes and sounds of sizzling filled his ears. A spicy fragrance filled the air, and Sherman found his will to sit on the adjacent countertop. When he was little, Mr. Peabody would place Sherman on that very counter, and the two would chat as Mr. Peabody cooked. As Sherman grew older, he began to help.

"Anybody who can read can cook," His father had told him, helping him measure sauce or clean shrimp.

Sherman chuckled softly at the memory, knowing that anybody could read could cook, but cooking _well_ took a special gift. Sherman could hardly boil an egg without making a mess. It was funny how much he missed home-cooked meals. For the past three years Sherman had lived off of ramen noodles, Lucky Charms, and fast food. His father would have a heart attack if he knew.

"So I'm having a friend join us for dinner," Sherman finally spoke, drawing little patterns into the cold marble with his finger.

"Oh?" Mr. Peabody turned to him. "I wish you would tell me these things, Sherman."

He sighed as he transferred the contents of the skillet into a bowl. As he started a pot of water for pasta, he turned around to face Sherman all the way and scrubbed a hand down his face, all the way to his snout.

"I hardly get to see you anymore," he pointed out. "Sometimes I would like the occasional weekend we have together to be just the two of us. Alone."

Sherman sighed too.

"I just-it's just kind of important he be here," he said. "I've been meaning to talk to you and-"

The elevator buzzed, and Mr. Peabody nodded his head at his son, who was already sliding off of the counter to go and answer the call. Sherman raced to the elevator door and hit the call button.

"Martin?" He asked.

"Yeah, it's me," a voice crackled through the static.

"I'll buzz you up," Sherman said.

He went back into the kitchen and his smile fell flat. Mr. Peabody had his back turned to him again, finishing dinner.

"Mr. Peabody," he said, but didn't know what to say.

The elevator dinged, and Sherman left to greet Martin. Mr. Peabody wiped his hands on a dish towel and followed, gathering his polite composure and straightening up.

"Hello," he said, shaking the hand of a dark haired boy with light brown skin. "You must be Martin."

"Yes, Sir," Martin said. It was obvious that he'd known Sherman's father was going to be a dog, but nobody was really ever ready for him in person. The boy was doing a bang-up job of not looking too shocked.

"Splendid!" Mr. Peabody clapped his paws together. "Well, dinner should be ready shortly, but I must tend to it as it's a time sensitive meal. You know what they say, 'When a clock is hungry, it goes back four seconds' ."

Martin smiled awkwardly and looked at Sherman, who just shrugged, laughing a little. Mr. Peabody rolled his eyes good-naturedly and called, "Sherman, offer your guest a drink."

"Your dad's really cool," Martin said quietly.

Sherman fixed Martin and himself a drink and the two lingered in the dining room. Mr. Peabody called for Sherman's assistance in moving the food, and when Sherman walked into the kitchen, he felt his nerves acting up again.

"Mr. Peabody," he said, being handed serving dishes. "I want to talk to you about Martin."

"Oh, Sherman," Mr. Peabody, who was standing on his stool to reach the stove, motioned for his son to lean down and when the boy did, Mr. Peabody petted his head. "I'm not upset. You're always welcome to bring a friend to dinner."

Sherman had trouble balancing the dishes.

"That's the thing, Martin's-"

"We'll discuss at the table," his father said briskly. "Heel-toe, Sherman."

* * *

Martin seemed to hit it off well with Mr. Peabody. Like Sherman, he was a history major and writing his dissertation on Italian Unification.

"I'm Italian," he said, shrugging. "So I figured it might be a good place to start."

"Mm…" Mr. Peabody waved his fork at him. "A dissertation is something you must put your heart into, not your genes. It's a topic that will be following you for quite some time."

"Sherman's very lucky," Martin said. "He told me all about how you built a time machine for him and all of the adventures the two of you have had. It would be nice just to have my dad remember what university I'm attending."

Sherman frowned. "I thought your dad lives at home."

"He does," Martin said. "Delicious Braciola, Mr. Peabody. No, my parents live together, but they don't take an interest like your dad does, Sherman."

"Thank you, Martin," Mr. Peabody said. "And it's a shame about your father. Every parent should be interested in their child's life."

Sherman chased his food around his plate. Martin looked at him, and Mr. Peabody could smell tension in the air.

"Sherman?" He reached over and touched the boy's hand. "Is everything alright?"

"Um…" Sherman put his fork down and opted to wring his cloth napkin instead.

Martin bit his bottom lip. Mr. Peabody grew worried.

"Oh, please don't tell me you've dropped out of school," he said.

"No." Sherman almost laughed.

"Are you failing a class?"

"No, Mr. Peabody-"

"Are you doing hard drugs?"

"No, I-"

"You impregnated a girl-"

"I'm gay!" Sherman blurted out.

Martin bit his thumb this time, and looked away from the pair.

"Martin's not just my friend, he's my…he's my boyfriend, we're dating," Sherman said, scooting his chair back from the table, his hands falling into his lap.

Turning to Martin, he said, "There, I told him. Happy?"

Mr. Peabody looked between the two of them, and it was becoming apparent that Sherman had intended on coming to dinner alone, but had most likely been pressured by Martin to…

"Sherman," his father spoke. "I-when did you-why didn't you-"

Music sounded and Martin jumped a little taking his phone from his pocket.

"My mom," he mouthed to Sherman, and excused himself to go talk in the parlor.

"Sherman, why didn't you tell me?" Mr. Peabody coaxed. "You should know that I'm not the kind of parent who's going to turn you away or throw you out. I love you, no matter what."

"It's not that," Sherman sighed, massaging his eyes with his fingertips under his glasses. "It's just…I don't want to turn your life into a media circus again."

Mr. Peabody looked away, frowning, and then back at his son.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"When you adopted me," Sherman explained. "I mean when everyone was talking about the craziness of a dog trying to adopt a boy and…well, now everyone's going to say, 'See? I told you so! Give a dog a boy and he'll turn out to be a fag'. "

"Don't you ever use that derogatory term again," Mr. Peabody said sternly. "And being gay doesn't make you any less enjoyable or smart or successful." He touched Sherman's chin gently, forcing it up. "It also doesn't make you any less of a son, let alone a person."

"I just feel like I've been one disappointment after another," Sherman said. "I thought maybe you'd feel more successful if I'd brought home a girl with a ring on her finger."

"Not this early," his father admitted. "And it's not a matter of being successful, Sherman, but feeling proud, which I do. I've always been proud of you."

He stroked some of Sherman's hair.

"And Martin seems like a smart, sophisticated young man."

Sherman perked a little.

"He is. We met in History 82l, the-"

"French Revolution," his father finished. "I know. I attended Harvard too."

Martin re-entered the room and said, "Sorry. My mother…she, uh, likes to complain about her husband…my father."

Sherman and Mr. Peabody both smiled at him. Martin rocked back and forth on his heels and said, "So, um…delicious dinner, Mr. Peabody."

"Sit down, Martin," the dog said affectionately. "Everything's fine."

As they ate, Sherman suggested they have a history discussion over dessert in the living room.

"I have a better idea," Mr. Peabody said. "Let's tear into this dessert-Martin, I do hope you enjoy Tiramisu, and afterward, we'll take a trip to Italy."

Sherman's eyes widened as he looked at his father.

"You mean…take somebody else in the WABAC?" He felt himself beginning to smile.

"Martin," Mr. Peabody said, smiling at the young man as he held his son's hand with his paw. "I think Sherman would like to do introduce you to a dear friend of ours. Have you ever seen the Mona Lisa?"

"Yeah…" Martin laughed breathlessly.

"He painted it."

The End


End file.
